


Safe as (Bird)Houses

by thegirlthatisclumsy



Series: On the Corner of [1]
Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Christmas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-29
Updated: 2012-11-29
Packaged: 2017-11-19 19:41:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/576925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlthatisclumsy/pseuds/thegirlthatisclumsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>New York at Christmas was something of a sight to behold. No matter how long Clint had lived in the city, it still amazed him just how even more colorful it became.  Clint had seen holiday displays all over the world, and he'd been in different lands where Christmas wasn't celebrated, but other holidays were.  </p><p>There was something different and special about Christmas in New York.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safe as (Bird)Houses

**Author's Note:**

> Submission for Feelstide 2012 - Prompt #25: Festive Christmas shopping in New York City

New York at Christmas was something of a sight to behold. No matter how long Clint had lived in the city, it still amazed him just how even more colorful it became. Clint had seen holiday displays all over the world, and he'd been in different lands where Christmas wasn't celebrated, but other holidays were. 

There was something different and special about Christmas in New York.

Clint shook his head at the fanciful thought and limped his way to his own storefront and propped his cane against the security gate. Bending down to unlock and pull up the grate made the knotted muscles in his thigh ache, but he ignored it. He supposed that after the clusterfuck that was Afghanistan he should have moved somewhere warmer.

He heard New Mexico was nice, but Clint had never really liked the desert. Even less so now. He grimaced thinking about the previous night full of dreams that made him toss and turn on his mattress. He forced the grimace away when he caught sight of a familiar redhead making her way down the snowy slush-lined street toward him. “Tasha, Russian tealight of my life, please tell me one of those is for me and it is from Odinson's.”

Natasha rolled her eyes and nearly shoved the paper cup of coffee into his hands and finished the task of rolling up the grate and deftly unlocking the door to Clint's tiny store. “I hate it when you do not wait for me to help you with opening up the store.”

Clint decided that ignoring his best friend was the better part of valor. He clomped his way inside, navigating the tables full of dollar paperbacks and avoiding the big squashy chair next to the children's books section. The air smelled like cinnamon, cloves, and books. He sighed and felt the ache in his muscles and bones ease a little just from the familiar smell. Natasha moved around him and the other random obstacles that was their shop to flip on the computer and turn on the register. 

Clint started his part of the morning routine and flipped through the CDs and chose something holiday themed, but nothing too obnoxious. Natasha had almost brained him with a hardback collection of Shakespeare’s tragedies when he left the *Nsync Christmas album in on repeat. They never spoke about it again. Mainly because Clint had no shame in bringing up Natasha's unnatural attachment to Barry Manilow's Christmas albums, all of which she had hidden in her apartment. He moved around to flip the sign to OPEN and turned the lights on for the front window display. The bell above the door jangled and Clint grinned when Peter came bustling in with apologies and a box of what smelled like Aunt May's cookies.

“Sorry! Sorry, guys. Just... I overslept. Harrison's a demon incarnate or something and assigned Voltaire during Christmas break. Who does that? What being with a soul assigns that?” Peter untangled himself from his scarf and Natasha looked pointedly at Clint then back at Peter's neck.

Peter stopped half way unwinding his scarf and blushed. “Crap. So, uh, Voltaire and Wade kept me up?”

Clint rolled his eyes but he just clapped a hand to Peter's shoulder. “Then Wade and Voltaire will understand why you are staying late to close to make up for being late this morning.”

Peter winced but nodded. He was quick to grin and he hung up his coat and bag on the tree. “No problemo, Boss Man and Boss Mistress. I'm here for all the biblioneeds.”

“We should really get those put on nametags for the holiday season,” Clint said and Natasha snorted and shrugged out of her own jacket. It was a slick black leather number and Clint hadn't seen that one before. “You are awfully quiet today. And that is a new coat.”

“You are nosy and yes it is.” Natasha bussed his cheek with a kiss before pinching Clint's arm. “Things are going well with my love life. Yes, I am getting presents and having fulfilling sexual encounters. You will get to meet them at Christmas dinner. Now leave me alone. I have inventory and a budget to reconcile.” 

Both Peter and Clint watch as Natasha swept out of the room and into the tiny back office. “I can't believe you dated her and survived.”

“You and me both, kid,” Clint stepped behind the counter and eased himself onto the stool. Taking the pressure off his leg was always a blessing and so was the jolt of caffeine from the sort of lukewarm coffee. Even tepid Odinson's coffee was better than any other coffee Clint had had in his life. 

“I swear he gets the beans from Olympus. No worldly coffee is this,” Clint muttered and Peter laughed at him.

“You just like ogling the barista,” Peter teased.

“I used to like ogling the barista, but there's some weird family drama there. Did you know that Loki is Thor's younger adopted brother?”

Peter looked at Clint with big eyes. “But weren't they full on humping on the dance floor at Natasha's Summer Solstice party last year?”

Clint tapped his nose with his finger and slugged back the rest of the sweet thick brew. “Yup. This is why I do not ogle said barista any longer. I do not want my coffee spit in. Plus, after they get over the weird daddy issues, I think Loki and Thor could work it out.”

“Or crash and burn horribly. Doesn't Thor's ex work at the coffee shop too?” Peter asked with a bundle of used Steinbecks held against his chest.

“That too. The joys of modern living and the social interactions of adults. It's like cable, without the gratuitous nudity for everyone to see,” Clint paused. “Well, except for Thor.”

“Except for Thor,” Peter agreed with a solemn nod.

Everyone was present for New Year's Eve 2008 and what happened when Thor let Loki tended the punch bowl.

“Loki's a lucky guy,” Peter said turning away from Clint.

“You do not lie, kid. You do not lie.”

+

Clint was well aware that if it weren't for the considerable advantage of his hazard pay and the sizeable life insurance benefits from his parents and his now departed older brother, there would have been no way in hell that he could have afforded his tiny shop. That plus the half of the business that Natasha owned made it possible for Clint to have the shop and do with it what he wanted. Things like Pound for Pound Friday once a month.

Peter was hauling the veritable ton of paperbacks and old textbooks and other donated and bought cheap books to the front of the store. Natasha was supervising the assorted treats and drinks in the corner. Clint managed to always be the one pumping the handle at the keg. For every pound of books one bought, Clint offered them a free-ish beer. It had been a success since its inception. Clint loved that even during the weeks leading up to Christmas, it still brought in regulars and visitors alike. 

“Friend Clint! I see that the brew has brought you many customers!” A voice boomed out across the tiny space and Clint didn't bother to hide his smile. Thor Odinson of Odinson's Cafe and Bakery was loud and jovial. If he were a few pounds more fat and less chiseled demigod, he would be Santa. 

“I see you're here just to partake in the libations and not buy books,” Clint teased but handed over a red cup to the guy.

Thor leaned in with a conspiratorial little grin. “That is where you are mistaken, friend. My beloved is purchasing books and I will consume the windfall.”

Thor always spoke with something that was a cross between his own native land's accent and some kind of speech that Clint had thought he'd heard in A Christmas Carol. 

Loki walked up with a paper bag full of books and a smile. A smile less shady than his usual and more relaxed. He looked up at Thor and stole the cup to take his own sip. “This one is mine.”

Clint had no idea if Loki meant the beer or the man. He kept quiet in either case. He just pulled off another beer for Thor. It looked like Loki had about five pounds of books at any rate.

“Where is your errant houseboy?” Loki asked and his accent was posher than Thor's but decidedly sharper.

“Bruce will be by later. He isn't my houseboy. He's my tenant,” Clint helped himself to his own drink. There was mulled wine in deference to the season and Natasha had a recipe that was as old as most of New York. Something that she'd picked up on her travels was the only explanation that Clint had gotten when he asked of the origins. Whatever and wherever it came from, Clint reaped the benefits of a tasty spicy drink.

“Tomato, tomahto,” Loki said waving the hand that was still holding the beer. Thor rescued it and pecked Loki on the cheek. 

“I will go see if Lady Natasha needs help minding the other libations,” Thor said and Clint rolled his eyes.

Loki spent a minute just looking at Clint with a narrowed gaze. “You're sure?”

“Bruce is straightish. Mostly. I'm not his type,” Clint's mouth quirked up a little. “At the very least, he's not mine. No matter how many times the guy gets me on my back.” 

Loki perked up at that and leaned in. “Do tell.”

Clint shook his head and laughed. “Ease back, Odinson. Bruce helps me with my leg. Convinced me to do some yoga. It actually helped a lot.”

Loki looked disappointed at the simple explanation. “But he's so,” he waved a hand. “Fluffy. I cannot believe that you haven't even thought about it.”

“Look he's my friend. I don't fuck my friends. Not without good reason.”

Loki did not look convinced. “Getting off is a good reason.”

“Not a good enough one for me,” Clint looked around and sighed when Wade tried to kiss Peter under the mistletoe and ended up overturning a table full of Harlequin romance novels. “I've got to run herd on the kiddies. Please tell your significant other not to drink all my whisky like he did last time. Let's not repeat Easter 2009.”

Loki shuddered and Clint could only agree with the sentiment. Whoever had been in that giant bunny suit that day was probably still be in therapy thanks to the antics of one Thor Odinson drunk off Jameson and chocolate liqueur.

+

The next time Clint found Thor and Loki, they were conversing with Bruce Banner. Clint groaned and hoped this wasn't another Valentines 2006 where the shopkeepers had all decided that Clint needed a new boyfriend. Clint had just finally finished renovating the store to his liking after years of making do with half the store being in flux and the other a disaster. All he had wanted was a quiet evening at home with him, a Die Hard DVD, and a couple of beers. He had ended up at Natasha's with a date and his leg going out on him halfway down the stairs while leaving the party.

Added to the fact that the guy wasn't even gay had made the entire debacle less than amusing to Clint.

“Hey guys. Please don't tell me you're matchmaking. Bruce and I are strictly bros.” Clint clapped Bruce on the shoulder and Loki's pout was almost cute. 

“He's so adorable, Clint. You two-.”

“Are just friends,” Bruce said simply. “Besides I have someone in mind for him.”

It was said so mildly that Clint almost didn't register it. “No.” Clint finally said when he realized they were actually and truly talking about him. “Absolutely not, Banner. We've talked about this.”

Bruce held up his hands. “Just meet the guy. He's a friend from my university days. He's not flashy or into himself. His biggest obsessions are history, his suits, and books.”

“Oh, for the love of Buddha, he sounds positively boring,” Loki sneered.

The glare that Bruce shot Loki snapped his mouth shut. “As I was saying, he's a smart and nice man. He's heard nothing but good things about your store and you from me.”

Clint sighed and he shook his head. “I'm not getting out of this, am I?”

“Dinner upstairs. Nat's coming without her new beau. Or girl. I can't tell who she's dating these days,” Bruce waved a hand. “I'm making curry.”

Clint made a face but resigned himself to his fate. “Fine, fine. I'll show up. Not like I could get out of it.”

“Only an act of God should keep you free of this, man,” Bruce said serenely.

+

It wasn't an act of God that kept Clint at home.

He had full intentions of going home after closing the shop and washing up and putting on a nice sweater and even shaving to meet Bruce's pick.

The patch of ice outside on his front stoop had other ideas. He remembered putting his cane down on the top step and pushing forward then the sickening rush and whoosh of air as he slipped. The first impact of his head against concrete knocked him out and then all he knew was darkness.

There was a brief flash of consciousness when someone shook him and jarred his leg. Then the sound of sirens and more yelling. The pain swallowed him up and let him pass out. It was kind in that regard.

He came to in the ambulance and grunted out the appropriate responses. There were tests and x-rays and a whole myriad of not so fun things. He wasn't stupid and he didn't make too much of a fuss (he was sure the nurses, EMT, and paramedics would disagree.) when they parked him in the ER. His head was pounding and he shut his eyes for a few minutes.

He woke up to the annoying sound of someone trying to politely cough and wake him up. He groaned when he tried to open his eyes and lift his head. 

“You know if you really didn't want curry, I could have made stew.” Bruce's tone is dry and bland, but the underlying worry made the words come out short. He had Clint's chart in his hands and looked as if he were making notes in the margins.

“Fuck,” Clint muttered and he groped for the bed control. “What's the damage, doc?”

“You've put strain on the scar site and twisted your knee,” Bruce said shaking his head. 

Clint heaved an internal sigh when Bruce took his glasses off to clean them on his shirt. That usually boded Bad Physical Therapy Things for Clint's future. “Just how badly is this going to hurt?”

“Oh, I wouldn't worry too much about PT. It's the Russian who nearly took my head off when I had to tell her that I was in the emergency room waiting for her best friend to come to,” Bruce poured Clint a cup of water and helpfully held up the cup with the bendy straw up to Clint's mouth.

Clint groaned but dutifully took a sip. His mouth felt grossly dry and stale. “No need to worry about PT or the rest of my life. Tasha's going to gut me where I lie.” The last time Clint had reinjured himself, he spent an hour with his ears ringing with Natasha yelling at him in English, Russian, and what Clint thought was Dari. 

“Maybe she'll let you off easy if you give her the eyes,” Bruce took a glance at the machines and started tapping out a message on his phone.

Clint lifted his hand up to rub at his head and winced. “No concussion?”

“A little one. You should be okay with someone looking after you for the night. I know how much you enjoy that,” Bruce didn't even bother trying to hide the smirk.

Clint contemplated tossing the bendy straw at him, but he reconsidered. Bruce Banner, while even keeled on most days, had issues with projectiles aimed at his person. Plus, Clint had admirable aim even this far out of BDUs and away from the sandbox. “So, how badly did I fuck up your dinner party?”

Bruce shrugged and he laid a hand on Clint's good knee. “Curry'll keep. All my guests were worried about the news of your untimely fall.”

“I promise I was on my way to shower and get myself pretty to meet your mystery man,” Clint held up three fingers.

“Clint, you were never a boy scout.”

“I could have been. You don't know my life, Banner.”

“I kind of do,” Bruce adjusted his sheets and tapped a finger against the faint smudge of a bruise on Clint's temple. 

Clint made a face at Bruce. “I know that look. That's the Clint Barton's Friends Think He Needs a Keeper look.”

Bruce didn't bother to answer and just rolled his eyes. 

“Where is the idiot?” The curtain rattled on its track and Clint winced. 

“Ice, Tash. It was ice's fault. I was just minding my own business. Ice and gravity. Kill them.”

Natasha did a quick visual scan and pursed her lips and Clint wondered if her back teeth were grinding. Her eyelid twitched and Clint did note that she did not have a weapon in her hand. Given that it was Natasha, a weapon could have been a cream filled donut, but Clint was counting it as a positive that her hands were empty at the moment. “Idiot,” she finally said and crossed to brush his hair back. “You need a keeper, Barton.”

“Hah!” Clint pointed a finger at Bruce.

Bruce was resolutely ignoring him and tapping at the screen on his phone.

“You have to stop injuring yourself,” Natasha fussed with his sheets and then pinched his arm.

“Yeow! Okay, okay! I promise. No more injuries. Ever. I'll be in a bubble. You'll have to roll me through the shop doors,” Clint flapped a hand at her pinching fingers. “Christ, woman. Do you have to pinch, pull, and twist? Evil,” he swallowed when she glared at him. “Evil but loveable radiant Russian flower.”

She ignored him; Clint was grateful for small favors. “You'll come home with me tonight so I don't have to tell everyone you survived two tours in Afghanistan to be taken out by frozen water and your front steps.”

Clint glared at her, then let his head fall back against the pillow. He tried to hide the wince, but Bruce and Natasha both reached for him. He figured he was doing a shitty job at faking it. “Fine.” He gave Bruce a look with a little smile. “So, sorry again that I missed meeting my Mr. Darcy.”

“Way less rude and pretentious,” Bruce said and patted Clint's hand. “I promise. He's a nice guy.”

“You know what they say about nice guys,” Clint adjusted the sheet over his lap and he wondered if Bruce could sweet talk the nurse into discharging him faster without running even more tests. 

“They don't always finish last,” Bruce slotted Clint's chart back into the folder and crossed his arms over his chest.

“No, sometimes they don't even get to race at all.”

Natasha began pulling Clint's clothes out of the plastic bag and started piling them into his lap. “That was a horrible mangling of an idiom. You should not be allowed to speak English.”

“Says the woman who I spent a month with trying to explain the importance of the word 'y'all' in everyday speech,” Clint frowned and he shook out his shirt making a face at the faint blood stains.

“I think your explanation and fashion sense are one and the same. They are lacking in substance and value,” Natasha smoothed his hair back and examined the scrapes and bruises. 

“Pshaw. I have great fashion sense,” Clint leaned into the touch and both Bruce and Natasha laughed. “I take offense to that. Bruce, you wear stretchy pants most of the time and Natasha is only ever happy when she's wearing a dead cow on her. No throwing stones, people.”

Both Natasha and Bruce ignored Clint. Clint sighed at the familiarity. 

“I'll go get your discharge papers. Nat's going to get you ready to go.”

“Yes, Dad,” Clint muttered.

“You'll thank me when you're older,” Bruce said stepping out of the little curtained alcove.

“You should give Bruce's friend a chance. He seemed nice,” Natasha took the balled up paper gown and tossed it into the garbage bin.

“Nice is... nice and all, but what's he going to want with me? I'm not nice and I'm,” Clint waved a hand at the gnarled mess of his thigh and knee. “Even nice guys want a dance partner, Tash.”

Natasha poked his shoulder with her hard little fingers. “Pity parties at Christmas are unbecoming.”

“Funny, I thought there were movies about it.”

Natasha tossed his his pants at him. “John Hughes film you are not.”

Clint sighed and he batted his lashes at Natasha. “I know, Tasha. I'm more like a Die Hard movie.”

“John McClane you are never,” Natasha's mouth quirked slightly and she cupped his cheek. “You may be Charlie Brown.”

Clint thunked his head lightly against Natasha's stomach. “Say it ain't so, Tasha.”

“Them's the breaks, Barton.”

“I remember when I had to explain that one to you,” Clint mumbled against her sweater.

“Oh, sweetheart. It's sad how you think you had to explain that particular phrase to a Russian,” Natasha patted his head.

If it felt like a smack, Clint was just going to ignore it and hope Natasha remembered he had a slight head injury. 

+

The guy was not necessarily non-descript, but he was what Clint imagined Clark Kent would have looked like if he were a real normal guy. There was a calmness about the half smile on his face. “Can I help you with anything, sir?” Clint had ducked down to Odinson's for a coffee and a croissant. The bell on the door had mysteriously gone missing the day before. Clint suspected Wade's doing, but he was reserving judgment till he actually cornered Peter to ask him why the boxes in the back stockroom had mysterious butt shaped dents in them.

“Oh, yes. I was wondering if you had these?” The guy held up a slip of paper with neatly written lines of text. 

Clint slid his bag of pastries and cup of coffee onto the front counter and nodded. “I can check. Give me a second to wake the computer up and I'll see if I've got it in stock.” He bit off a curse when he tried to take the paper and it drifted just out of reach between both their hands. “Sorry-.”

“No, let me-.”

The resulting head crash would have been movie perfect if Clint hadn't stumbled back and gotten tangled up in his own feet. His cane crashed spectacularly against the guy's shins and Clint went down with a thud. He was surprised he hadn't added more insult to injury and had his coffee cup fall off the counter and slosh all over them both.

“Christ, are you okay?” 

Clint blushed hotly looking up into gray blue eyes filled with concern. Those nice-looking hands were patting him down lightly. “Er, yeah. Just bruised my pride a little. Me and gravity aren't on such good terms these days.”

There was a hand to help haul him up and Clint realized that they were about the same height. He was a bit stuck on that. There weren't many guys that Clint a) found attractive and b) were his size. His mind strayed to the odd thought of all things lining up. He rubbed a hand against the back of his neck and he waved a hand at the piece of paper. “I can, uh, look those up for you.”

“No hurry. I was told that this was the place to find what I needed.” The guy's smile was nice and Clint didn't bother to hold back the one that mirrored it. Clint usually had trouble figuring out when he was being flirted with, but the smile and the careful way his arm was brushed was a big flashing sign of open for flirtation.

Clint made his way around the counter and looked at the letterhead. “You work at the university?”

“Guilty. I teach history. Military history and warfare strategies. Also, a couple of classes in the spring in Poli Sci.” He lifted a shoulder in a shrug and his lips curved slightly into a half smile.

“Well, Professor P. Coulson, let's see if I can't give you want you want,” Clint said then paused. “Wow. That sounded cheesier in my outside voice than it did in my inside voice.”

“I won't hold it against you. Call me Phil,” Phil laughed and Clint liked the dry little chuckle. “I keep calling you Bookstore Guy in my head.”

“Clint, my name's Clint. Barton, that is. I, uh, own this place. Well, about fifty one percent of it,” Clint tapped out the title of the first book on the list. 

Phil's eyebrow went up and the smile grew a little bigger. “You own Birdhouse Bookstore?”

Clint leaned his hip against the counter as he queried the next search. “I couldn't think of anything better?”

Phil leaned in and Clint caught a whiff of his cologne, subtle and spicy. “You know, I don't think that's true. There's a story there.”

Clint sent the list to the printer and he slipped his hand under the counter to rub at his thigh. “Tell you what,” he picked the paper from the tray and turned back. “If you let me take you out to dinner, I'll tell you the story about a lost soldier, a mistaken Russian spy, and a run-down cigar shop turned bookstore.”

Phil stuck his hand out. “That is definitely a deal. But only if you let me pick you up.”

Clint tapped the paper on the counter and leaned in close, Phil's hand still hovering between them. “It's New York, don't you walk?”

This time Phil's mouth committed to the full smile and Clint bit back the groan at just how attractive it made him. “Not if I can take the Shelby.”

“History buff, professor, and a car guy? Did you peek at my letter to Santa?” Clint asked taking Phil's hand and squeezing lightly.

“If I say yes, will that get you to agree with me?” Phil tugged Clint in closer.

Clint licked his lips and was gratified when Phil's eyes darted down to watch his mouth. “Oh, yeah.”

“Then Santa and I are old pals. Keeps me up to date on the nice and naughty boys,” Phil cleared his throat. “Okay. Now that's my turn to apologize for the cheese factor.”

Clint laughed and stepped back, letting Phil's hand slip from his. “I won't hold that against you. But yeah, you and me, your Shelby and dinner.”

“And your story,” Phil added.

“And the story,” Clint agreed.

“It's a date.”

Clint nodded and grinned. “It is.”

+

“...And the thing exploded and I was the only one caught in the explosion and the wreckage of the building falling in on itself. They say I was lucky,” Clint shoved his free hand into his pocket and his other hand gripped the handle of his cane a little tighter.

Dinner had gone as smoothly as Phil's Shelby drove. They’d seemed to be able to carry on the conversation even when the subject matter drifted from favorite foods to hated authors to worst movies of the 80s. Clint gave himself a point for every time he heard that dry chuckle or got Phil to turn that full smile back at him. 

“So, the hawk got robbed of his nest,” Phil rolled his shoulders forward a bit. The snow was coming down in lazy passes. Not a full flurry yet, but the weather was ramping up for a storm. They'd had to park a few blocks from the restaurant and Clint had refused to just wait for Phil to come around and pick him up from the entrance.

“Less eloquent than that, but in a way,” Clint huffed out a breath, the air turned white then dissipated. “So, I needed a safe haven. My folks had passed a few years ago and Barney, my brother, took off when I was eleven. I got notified he died a few months before that last hitch. So, it was the shittiest downpour for a good long while.” He looked up at the sky, dark and dotted with city lights and white flakes. “Used what I had coming to me from the insurance and my combat pay to finance the Birdhouse.”

“Why a bookstore?” Phil reached out and slipped his hand into Clint's pocket, fingers curling around Clint's with a tentative little squeeze.

Clint leaned into Phil, into the touch and let out another breath. “There was a writer or maybe it was a journalist, I can't remember where I heard the passage, but it was about Vietnam and how the soldiers would read shitty paperbacks to pass the time between boredom and terror. I was never the biggest reader when I was a kid. I was active, going out and causing trouble. Dreams of running away to the circus, you know?”

“Well, you would have been an ace sharpshooter. Hawkeye, the world's greatest marksman.” Phil squeezed Clint's hand again.

Clint laughed at that. “Something like that. Clowns are still creepy though. But when I went into the service, I found myself doing that. Especially when I got sent to the 'Stan. Just wavering between terror and boredom. Nothing was sure. Nothing was steady. But for a few hours, I could lose myself in a story. Books didn't care how slowly I read them or how well I understood them. I spent even more time reading when I was at Bethesda. That and a lot of Sudoku.”

Phil laughed and the sound was kind. “I kind of understand that.” They turned the corner and Clint raised an eyebrow. Phil just nodded when Clint perched his ass against the side of the Shelby. “Books about war are interesting. Living through it is something else entirely. Terror and boredom,” Phil rubbed his thumb over the top of Clint's hand. “I'm glad you survived. I'm glad you found a friend in your crazy Russian.”

Clint smirked. “It's not my fault she ran into me trying to buy the same store for the same purpose. She was all in leather and waving around an ice pick. It was either Russian spy or Russian mob. Tasha's too sexy to be boring mafia.”

Phil cleared his throat and looked down and away. “I've got a confession.”

“Oh, confession. This should be good. Are you secretly hiding a leather fetish from me Philip James? Or is this a shitty secret like you're married to a girl named Maria and I'm going to have to do a dance number snapping my fingers?” Clint tugged Phil closer, pulling him between his legs.

“So, it wasn't just festive Christmas shopping I was doing at the Birdhouse. I, uh, know your Natasha,” Phil cleared his throat again and Clint was figuring out that that was Phil's nervous little tell. “And Bruce.”

Clint groaned and he rested his head on Phil's shoulder. “You're Bruce's nice mystery guy. The one I was supposed to meet at the curry dinner.”

“Guilty,” Phil's mouth brushed against his ear and Clint shivered. He'd blame it on the cold, but he only lied when it served to get him out of trouble. He was figuring he might like this bit of trouble.

Clint turned his head slightly and his nose brushed against Phil's cheek. “Sorry about that. Like I said before, gravity and I are not on the best of terms.”

“I heard you took a spill. Bruce kept talking you up and I figured no guy was that great. Got curious,” Phil laughed and Clint looked down at the soft curve of Phil's lower lip. “Curse of the academic. I had to see for myself, discount it. But you proved me wrong. Or Bruce right.”

“Huh. Cheesily bad innuendo and superior motor skills trump being stood up?”

“Not your fault,” Phil said softly.

Clint leaned his cane against the side of the car and put his hand on Phil's waist, sliding his fingers between the open edges of Phil's coat. “You should probably blame me for this though.”

Phil met him more than halfway for the kiss. Their noses bumped in the first pass, but they adjusted and Clint's mouth brushed once and then twice against Phil's. Phil pressed closer, teeth scraping lightly against Clint's lower lip till Clint groaned.

They stayed there kissing for long enough that everything but Clint's lips and his hands, where they were tucked in and under Phil's coat, was cold. Phil finally pulled back a bit to cup the side of Clint's neck with a warm hand.

“So, tomorrow night I had plans to read some new books I picked up at this bookstore I just found. Owner's really nice and gave me a good price, so I had enough to pick up a case of micobrew and a couple of boxes of Christmas cookies from the bakery on my block,” Phil said against Clint's neck.

Clint tucked his face against Phil's cheek. “Well, I just met this guy I kind of want to spend the night talking about books with and I've got the best Chinese place on speed dial on my phone.” He shook his head slightly. “God, Bruce and Tasha are never going to let me hear the end of this.” 

“Well, we don't have to tell them,” Phil stepped back to look at Clint

Clint shook his head again. “Nah. Let 'em be smug. They got me a pretty awesome Christmas gift.”

Phil dug the keys out of his pocket. “That was sappy, but sweet. I suppose I should get used to that.”

Clint tugged him in and kissed him hard. “I think so.”

“I hope so.”

Clint pushed himself up, grabbed his cane and sauntered over to the passenger side door. “Well, I'm sure you've been a good boy this year. You should get all that you hope for.”

Phil unlocked Clint's door and kissed his cheek. “And what if I've been a bad boy?”

Clint smirked and eased himself into the seat. The leather creaked and Clint tipped his head back to look at Phil. “Well, then you'll be getting what you hope for and what I want. Win win.”

“Merry Christmas to all,” Phil laughed and shut the door with a firm little push.

“And to Clint a good night,” Clint said and leaned back watching Phil cross around the car.

He'd wait till tomorrow to put a little thank you note in Bruce's stocking and send Tasha a text. They'd be smug, but Clint could live with that. Phil looked over at him as he started the car. The smile was back and Clint sank back into the seat. 

The radio played something with bells and Clint could smell the spice and musk of Phil's cologne. Clint looked out at the city streets and the lights in the windows and thought that New York at Christmas was even brighter and more beautiful than before. 

The snow fell heavier and Clint watched the world turn white as Phil's hand covered his, the touch was warm and Clint watched the city drift by from the safety of Phil's space.

**Author's Note:**

> I realized that I never revealed who exactly Natasha was dating... Guess I'll have to write a sequel? 
> 
> Many thanks (and I owe her a knitted hat) to Schuyler for once again being the better parts of my brain and having awesome beta-fu skills.


End file.
